


Somewhere Only We Know

by bereniceofdale



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: It Gets Better, M/M, Memories, Past Character Death, Set in Middle-Earth, i guess, kind of Fix-It to Bard's death, not as sad as it sounds, sort of Emotional Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-06-09 01:01:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6882721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bereniceofdale/pseuds/bereniceofdale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Thranduil’s hands fall clenched into fists by his sides, his fingernails digging into his palm. He doesn’t wake up, and a part of him is relieved; sometimes pain is the price to pay for a little bit of comfort, and comfort is what he finds in the lines of Bard’s face.”</p><p>When the eighteenth month since Bard's death comes, Thranduil wakes on a strange feeling. He follows a mysterious blue orb through the ill trees of his forest, where he is shown precious memories of his ephemeral time with Bard. But is it a trick of his mind, a dream, or reality?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere Only We Know

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very happy to share with you my very first participation to an event such as the Hobbit Big Bang! I hope you'll enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> The idea came to me while listening to [Lily Allen's cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mer6X7nOY_o) of 'Somewhere Only We Know', and ['Smell'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5QUnUjMGzZ0) by Sleeping At Last is definitely another theme song.
> 
> Huge thanks to [diamond-skeleton](http://diamond-skeleton.tumblr.com/) and [queenstardust](http://queenstardust.tumblr.com/) for the gorgeous work they've put into this story as well! 
> 
> [Art](http://diamond-skeleton.tumblr.com/post/144998282826/somewhere-only-we-know-by-acebarduil-hobbit-big) by diamond-skeleton  
> [Art](http://queenstardust.tumblr.com/post/145765117191/aaah-i-am-late-to-the-party-but-i-bring-new) by queenstardust 
> 
> Of course thank you to my friend and beta [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/) for the editing! It's been one hell of a ride, I couldn't thank you enough! It wouldn't have been possible without you! ♡
> 
> And thank you to everyone who offered me support and enthusiasm, it means an awful lot! <3 You know who you are :)

It is the first day of spring when the eighteenth month since Bard was taken away from Middle-earth comes. His life had started to fade at the same time it had slowly left plants and trees, as if his soul had been waiting for that to go; to follow the stream.

Thranduil remembers that day clearly; it had never left his thoughts since he had felt Bard's wavering breath weaken and his heart stop, for his own had been torn and broken like a crystal glass thrown against a wall.

He remembers his tears and the cries he hadn't been able to hold back.

He remembers feeling a part of his soul being ripped away from him once again.

He remembers wanting to fall asleep with the man he had married cradled in his arms, and hoping he would not have to wake up.

But he had. Somehow, he had.

He doesn't know if it had been for the children, or for Legolas. He doesn't know if it had been for his kingdom. Maybe it had even been for Bard, or Lhaewel, his wife. Neither of them would have ever wanted him to fade.

What he knows is that he fulfils his duty as King, and lives, though perhaps not completely. He's not really there, not anymore, not when a part of him died with Bard, and it often feels like it is only the love he bears for his people, and the one he still feels for Bard and their joint family, that keeps him going.

It is something strange that gets him out of bed again that morning, something different; a feeling, new and comforting, telling him there are things to see out there, waiting for him. Thranduil has always loved spring, when the world comes to life again, even in the most improbable of places. In the past he has always felt better when spring comes. Maybe some things don't change.

Thranduil leaves his bed. He dresses in simple robes, leaves his feet bare, and goes to look at his reflection in the mirror. As always he is flawless; but he wouldn’t be if he didn’t wear the mask he used to never let fall before Bard entered his life, and made a beautiful mess of it. He won’t let his family and his people witness the pain he bears, though it is useless to pretend he is alright. They know him all well enough to realize it, but still it is not a sight he would wish upon them.

He doesn't think, and follows the empty path of his halls he used to wander with Bard; he lets his steps take him wherever he is waited, wherever he needs to be.

Not much has changed since Bard died. It almost feels as if everything is back to what it was before the spark was born between them; a secluded life from which love was hidden, often excluded, as if Thranduil had not deemed himself worthy of it anymore. Yet still he walks with his head high, and though it is softer, it is still with a hand of iron that he rules his realm. But there is an emptiness Bard left behind him, just like Lhaewel had before him, one Thranduil hasn’t learned how to fill.

The dining room is empty as he steps inside. Breakfast is served, and the air smells of good food and pleasant fragrances of fruit. Thranduil eats alone.

As soon as he is done a shiver runs down his spine, and he knows he has to go out; there's a voice that tells him he's been inside his halls for too long. Life is coming back to his ill woods and he must see to them, now that winter is gone; perhaps he can find something good there.

Thranduil goes to the gates; the guards bow, but don't say a word. There he inhales the fresh, slightly warm air. He hears the happy chatter of the birds, but it doesn't reach his heart; it is closed and broken and cold, for winter has settled inside it once again. 

But there's a light, the reason he is still standing. It is small and it is fragile, but it is here and Thranduil hangs onto it with all the strength he has to give.

And so he goes.

The guards try to stop him, but he waves them off. 

He walks the bridge separating his home from the forest until he feels the moist of dew under his feet. It has been long since the last time he felt connected to his woods in such a way, and the found feeling soothes his cracked mind.

It is there that he sees it: a small orb, floating in the air.

At once the orb swirls to and fro around him. It is blue and beautiful and warm, and nothing like Thranduil has ever seen before. Thranduil doesn’t try to chase it off, for he has seen many strange things in his life, enough to be able to tell what is Evil and what is not. 

This is what makes Thranduil follow it; he hasn't felt good, kind warmth in a long time. It is like the first rays of sunlight at the end of winter, a relief he doesn't know he has been been craving, soft and speaking silent words of a new dawn.

And so Thranduil walks; he follows the light along the paths he hasn't taken in longer than he remembers—or wants to remember. As much as he enjoys his forest, under his feet the ground is still cold and dark and dead, and it squeezes Thranduil's heart. But the light doesn't seem bothered; it keeps floating around, leading the way. Maybe it isn't wise, for Thranduil to follow blindly something he cannot explain, but every time he has followed his heart it has never failed him—no matter how broken.

His woods are nothing like they used to be; even since Sauron has been defeated in Dol-Guldur, his shadow lingers. It is in the air and in the ground, and Thranduil smells it, feels it. He doesn't know when he allowed such decay. His people are doing what they can, but somehow it isn't quite enough; the spiders keep growing in number, and the trees are ever dying.

However, today there aren't any spiders on Thranduil's path; it is clean, and it is safe. Wherever Evil is, it isn't here.

It puts Thranduil’s mind at ease, and he feels lighter, safer, warmer, if only for a moment; he figures it is the effect the orb has on its surroundings. It is soothing, but there is something else, too, that puts strings around his heart. Something he cannot ignore no matter how hard he tries. It doesn’t hurt, but it is uncomfortable, and feels like it is threatening to unleash more pain; yet somehow it is a pain that can be good, and even though Thranduil cannot quite explain it, he is willing to face it.

He doesn't know for how long he walks. He just knows the orb is still here, and that he's now being led along the river. Sometimes the orb seems to check on him; it floats around his chest, bumps his sides almost playfully as if to try to cheer him up, but its light dims for a moment when Thranduil doesn't even crack a smile.

Thranduil takes a deep breath, ignoring how the orb acts. He shakes his head, and walks faster, and his heart accelerates too, for he knows where the river will lead him, and the memories he will find there. He doesn't know why he keeps going, why he follows instead of turning back, when only pain is waiting for him at the end of the line.

Memories hurt as he reaches the little dock where Bard used to pick up the barrels; but there's a softness to them, something longing. In the air, there are whispers; incoherent words he cannot recognize, but they are spoken so quietly a human ear could not hear them.

Yet he doesn't find what he expected.

His breath gets caught in his throat, and he stops dead in his tracks.

It isn't because of the deteriorated state of this place that had mattered to him, but because what he sees is nothing but a sight he had never thought to witness again.

There's a barge at the dock, and upon it are barrels, just like the ones used to move wine from Laketown to Mirkwood. This barge, Thranduil knows it well. He thought it destroyed in the dragon's fire that tore Laketown apart.

Meanwhile the orb has stopped above the barrels, and seems to be waiting. Its light is stronger, and it flickers before disappearing just as a familiar voice rises.

“You must be Lord Thranduil,” the voice says, and Thranduil turns on his heels. “What brings you here?”

He freezes where he stands, unable to tear his eyes away from the man he lost to mortality. He is wearing his old clothes, and is much younger than the Bard Thranduil last saw.

At first he doesn’t understand what he is witnessing, for Bard is dead and buried. Thranduil was at the funeral, dressed in darker clothes than he had worn in years, unwilling to meet anyone’s eyes as his husband was put in the ground. He had placed the last flower himself.

So Thranduil wonders—has he gone mad at last?

This has to be a dream. But is there really much to doubt when he remembers each word of the moment that started it all, happening all over again before his eyes? And so he comes to know; this is a memory. 

But Thranduil gives no answer, for it is not him that Bard, carrying his bow and a dead rabbit, is looking at.

He doesn't turn again to look at the old version of himself that must have appeared behind him. All he can look at is Bard, there, walking right towards him. Now that he is closer, Thranduil can see it; his eyes are the same. They had never seemed to age, but there is something missing: the spark grown just for Thranduil hasn't been born yet.

This is the very beginning of those golden, kinder days that Thranduil misses beyond words and reason, reborn again before his very eyes.

It is a sad, cruel trick, to create such an illusion. Thranduil realizes it when he reaches out to brush Bard's cheek, just as Bard walks right through him as if he is nothing but smoke; Bard cannot touch or be touched, and suddenly Thranduil feels cold, and his hands shake.

“You have keen eyes, bargeman, I will give you that,” his old self says, and it is only Thranduil's need to see Bard that makes him turn around.

Thranduil’s hands fall clenched into fists by his sides, his fingernails digging into his palm. He doesn't wake up, and a part of him is relieved; sometimes pain is the price to pay for a little bit of comfort, and comfort is what he finds in the lines of Bard's face.

“I wished to meet our new—associate.”

“I hope I meet your expectations, my Lord,” Bard says. “I wouldn't want to lose this job if I want to keep feeding my children.”

“How many?”

“Three.” Bard sounds curious by the interest the Elvenking seems to give him. Truth is that at the time, Thranduil held little for Bard, or anyone that wasn't among his people, for that matter.

“You need not worry,” the younger Thranduil replies, and waves his hand. “As long as my wine arrives to my kingdom untouched.”

Bard bows his head in respect, though there is something of a defiance in his eyes, and then they are fading and gone.

Thranduil stands there, at a loss. Instead of the barge and the memory, there is now the orb, bouncing up and down in the air. It looks strangely happy, and when it seems to notice there is no happiness in Thranduil's eyes, it stops and its light fades.

Thranduil's eyes don't leave the docks. He wishes he had seen more, for the conversation had not ended there. So he sits on the rocks, and the orb comes to float before him, and he replays it in his head. Thranduil remembers how at the end of their talk, Bard had piqued enough of his interest for him to wish to return, some day soon.

It had all started from there. Meetings that had grown in number, talks that had ended reluctantly, a few nights under the stars, creating a sense of trust and loyalty and complicity that Thranduil hadn't shared with anyone in a long time—and with it all, unexpected feelings that had been neither admitted nor spoken until darker times.

In the end, Thranduil is smiling; it is gone when reality creeps its way back into his mind, but still, he feels how the corners of his mouth have turned upwards in a shape that feels long forgotten. It is a good feeling, and it is with less dread that he stands to follow the light once more.

It doesn't move; instead there's a change in the air, and before Thranduil's eyes Bard appears once again, replacing the orb. The barge is back as well, but there are no barrels—yet. Bard is sitting on the dock, his feet hanging above the water, and the Thranduil from back then walks through his older self to sit beside Bard. Both wear lighter clothes; it is a warm day of summer, before the Battle of the Five Armies. Thranduil remembers this day well, for it had been special in its own way.

It had also been the fifth year since their first meeting. It hadn't felt like such, and quickly Thranduil had realized how Bard wouldn't be more than a shooting star in his life.

In the end, he had been so much more than that.

“How can it be so hot this far north,” Bard grumbles under his breath, before he takes off his tunic. “Doesn't it bother you?”

“Elves are not as sensitive to temperatures as Men are,” the younger Thranduil answers, looking at Bard tossing his upper clothes away curiously. “I think it is quite pleasant weather.”

Bard snorts as he stretches his arms. “You're lucky, then.” He sighs. “It's still better than the cold, though.”

“I suppose so.”

Neither speaks, but their shoulders brush and they look content with the comfortable silence surrounding them. Thranduil watches the memory, hoping it wouldn't fade again, for he knows what comes next, and it is one of those moments that were only their own.

“Fancy a swim?” Bard suddenly speaks up.

“I'm sorry?”

“A swim. In the lake.”

Thranduil raises an eyebrow. “No, thank you,” he says.

Bard hums, and pushes himself from the border of the dock, into the water. Then, he disappears, and Thranduil’s ghost rolls his eyes; it is a children's trick, and he's old enough to know so. Yet he doesn't expect Bard rising, catching his arm, and making him fall in as well.

Bard laughs as the younger Thranduil scoffs, nudging Bard's shoulder and trying to keep his composure. But Bard's amusement is contagious, and soon enough his own laugh resonates as well, and their joy combined is music to Thranduil's ears. 

The memory fades, and as Thranduil laughs, he cries a little, too. It feels strange, for he hasn't laughed in a long time; he realizes now that he had thought he would never again. But then, he had believed so too when his wife had been lost to him. Perhaps this life still owes him a few surprises, and such a thought makes him shake his head.

It is hope, faint and fragile, but Thranduil takes it in both hands, for he knows this is what is good for him, and anyone he loves who still lives.

He lets his eyes linger on the water, and wipes the tear off his cheek. It had been a special day indeed; the one in which he had fully realized how important Bard was to him. He had already known, but this? Not many would have dared such a thing, and even less would have faced no consequences for such a bold act.

Perhaps that was the day Thranduil had realized he loved Bard more than he had believed, too. Bard was a grim and stern man, for life had shaped him as such, and done so the hard way. Yet in Thranduil's presence he had softened in a similar way that Thranduil had, and showed happier, more careless aspects of himself. Discovering them had been a pleasure and an honour, something Thranduil had never tired of witnessing, and being the reason for.

That day when he had seen the lines of laughter at the corners of Bard's eyes, warm and bright, free from the worry and seriousness that usually tainted them even just for this short moment, Thranduil had known.

Thranduil shakes his head once more, putting the thoughts into a safe corner of his mind.

The orb that now replaces the memory seems satisfied; it bumps into his chest, then moves a little forward, and repeats the gesture as if to tell him to follow.

It has found its intensity again, and leads Thranduil back into the woods.

“What are you?” Thranduil asks. “How—why are you doing this?” He gets no answer from the orb, but its light flickers and it goes just a little faster.

Maybe he has gone mad, Thranduil thinks. Yet it doesn't feel like it, and he doesn't care; if madness is the price to pay to see Bard again, he will welcome and embrace it.

In the forest, everything is dark; the light of the sun doesn't reach ground and roots. Seeing the growing decay of his forest after months of ruling his kingdom without stepping a foot outside of his Halls is a shock. He has always felt it, deep within, along with his grief, but seeing it is different. It pains him, for there is little his people can do to save it.

Others might say it is beyond saving, but this, Thranduil refuses to believe. One day or another, be it in a hundred years or the next age, Mirkwood will be Greenwood once more.

Thranduil’s steps are steadier but his heart isn't as Thranduil follows the blue orb, his mind blurry and foggy as he wonders if this is all a trick of his own making. He knows what a dream feels like, and this isn't one; the memories he plays and replays in his head are nothing like what he sees today. 

It doesn't matter, he repeats to himself. It is worth it.

Further ahead, the orb disappears, and Thranduil stops. There is a form sitting on a rock, its back resting against a wall of grey bricks. Who it is is no secret to Thranduil; it is none other than himself, after Legolas' departure and the bloodshed that was the Battle of the Five Armies.

He makes a pitiful sight; blood on his face and on his armour, face tilted down he is looking at the ground, his eyes lost in the mist of his thoughts.

“Thranduil!” a voice calls then.

The younger Thranduil's head snaps up. He wipes some of the blood off his cheek.

“Thranduil!” the voice calls again.

From between the trees Bard emerges; his eyes are tired and his movements weary, but he seems untouched, and the first emotion that shows on the face of Thranduil's ghost since his encounter with Tauriel is relief.

Bard walks through Thranduil once more, causing a cold shiver to run down his spine and his breath to catch in his throat. He watches as Bard crouches before his younger self, and takes his hands in both of his own.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, and his voice is as soft as the way his hands bring Thranduil's knuckles to his lips. Bard doesn't kiss them; instead he lets his breath warm them, even though he's been told many times the cold has no effect on Elves.

“No,” Thranduil’s ghost breathes, and he gets one of his hands out of Bard's to brush his cheek. He inspects Bard’s face, traces the lines of the corner of his eyes and down to his jaw where the beard tickles under his fingers. “I'm glad you're alright,” Thranduil says.

Bard's smile is thin, and his expression softens more. He puts his hand above Thranduil's, and slowly turns his head. Lips meet palm, and a kiss is left there. Such a gesture is meant to be comforting, yet it is more.

Thranduil’s ghost blinks. “Your children?” The question is useless; Bard wouldn't be here if anything had happened to them.

“They’re okay.” Bard's face darkens. “Your son?”

“He is well, but gone,” Thranduil answers, and there is a hurt in his voice that Bard can't seem to bear; he cups Thranduil's face between his hands, and his eyes get lost in Thranduil's, learning, searching.

This is a different kind of boldness, and Thranduil’s younger self craves it more than he'd care to admit. He has since the battle ended, since he saw his people fall and his son leave and has been reminded of the pain of the grief Lhaewel left behind her. He has craved that boldness more than ever since he'd just seen his dearest friend come back to him unharmed, unlike many others.

Thranduil embraces it.

He cups Bard's face as well, closes his eyes and leans forward, and for the first time their lips meet in a kiss that is returned without a mere second of hesitation. It is a kiss of realization, unspoken love, relief; it is desperate and yet it is soft, like a wave breaking on the beach on a calm summer day.

They are alive and safe and together and it is more than they had dared to hope for when the battle had broken around them, and Thranduil had believed he might have seen Bard for the last time without realizing what it was that he hid from himself.

He knows, now.

The memory fades with their foreheads pressed together, and another stolen kiss; the first of many more to come.

Thranduil exhales a shaky breath. The orb is back, and in its own way tells him to follow. He straightens himself, and walks on. The trees they pass are grey and ill, and their leaves fragile. Thranduil lets his fingers linger on a trunk; they catch sap, and it is black as spiders' blood.

He is led to a stream that they follow to a point of clear water; there are few of them left in the forest, and a stag and doe are drinking from it. Neither is frightened by Thranduil's arrival. They raise their heads and look at him, and their eyes meet, only to look back down as if Thranduil is one of their own. 

Thranduil crouches, and washes his hands. 

When he looks up, there is a bathtub, one that Thranduil recognizes as being from Dale, in the middle of the water. He stands, still feeling startled, and catches his breath. Thranduil misses Dale, he realizes, but he hasn't found the will to go there since Bard's funeral; he would, if he were needed, but Bain came to know him, and doesn't seem to need his help as of now. His father has been a good teacher.

Hot water and foam are filling the tub, and Thranduil can almost smell the lavender of the soap that he remembers he had used to wash the dirt off Bard's hair; he knows which memory it is, when Bard gradually appears in the orb's place. His back is turned on Thranduil, scarred from old lashing under the Master’s rule.

Thranduil circles the tub, so he can see Bard's face. His eyes are closed, and he takes a deep breath before he opens them to look at his hands. 

The doe and the stag don't seem to be aware of the memory unfolding before their eyes, and the stag continues drinking as the doe lays by the water, and closes its eyes as well. They do not share this with him. 

“At least the horse is fine,” comes Thranduil's voice from behind Bard.

Bard startles, but then chuckles, and rolls his eyes. “What a shame it would have been, for the future King of Dale to die so soon before his coronation.”

“Bard—”

“At least I could escape it for three years,” Bard says. “But now the city's rebuilt—”

Thranduil’s ghost keeps his silence; there is nothing that will make Bard completely accept what his people need him to be. Thranduil knows Bard’s heart doesn't belong on the throne as a king, but that Bard has understood that if this is what his people need, so be it.

Thranduil undresses, and picks a cup from the ground besides the tub.

“Make room for me, meleth?” Thranduil asks, then.

Without a word Bard sits straighter, and Thranduil joins him in the warm water. He sits behind Bard, leaves the cup to float at his side, and lets his fingers linger on the path of the scars there, then down to Bard's side. It is bruised and Bard winces under his touch, even as soft as it is.

“I'll ask for more ointment,” Thranduil murmurs. “It'll help with the pain.”

Bard nods, and looks down to his hands once more, before he lays them upon Thranduil's knees. He rubs slow circles there, and it seems he is lost in thoughts.

“You'll be a good king, Bard,” Thranduil says as he fills the cup and pours water on Bard's head. “You already are a good leader.”

“I had a fine teacher,” Bard replies, and this time he is smiling.

Thranduil’s ghost kisses Bard's jaw as answer, then takes the soap, and proceeds to wash Bard’s hair with careful fingers. He takes his time, massaging the scalp and combing the locks with his fingers. Soon enough Bard is humming, and his song fills the air of the clearing.

Thranduil watches, hoping he could reach out and touch the memory; soothe Bard's worry once more, kiss his pain away and feel the warmth of his skin under his fingers. But he stands there in silence, refreshing each detail stored in his memory.

He smiles, when Bard leans against his younger self's chest, takes his hand in his and kisses it. Then the scene fades, and Thranduil sees only the orb, and the stag and doe, still there, laying on the ground and sharing each other's warmth.

Instantly he knows this isn’t over; the orb has yet to move, and even if he and Bard have disappeared, the tub hasn’t.

Less than a few seconds later a form appears, not giving Thranduil any time to recover from the last memory. The form isn’t in the tub, but on the ground and against it. Thranduil looks at his duplicate; he looks even more miserable from the outside than he'd thought he had.

Thranduil hears footsteps, coming their way. He himself takes one back, knowing that if he stays there, Bard will walk through him. It isn’t a feeling he wishes to feel again.

“Thranduil,” Bard calls as he appears in the clearing. “What are you—are you alright?”

There’s no answer coming from the Elf sitting by the tub with only a sheet covering him, but Thranduil remembers how cold the tiles had felt, and how scared he had been as he had shivered under the weight of Bard’s gaze on him. 

He merely nods, if only to soothe the worry he can hear in Bard’s voice.

Bard comes to kneel before him, and takes Thranduil’s hands. Thranduil’s ghost knows Bard is staring; he can feel his eyes tracing the path of the scars and burns scattering his body. 

“Thranduil, won’t you look at me?”

Reluctantly Thranduil looks up. What he finds upon Bard’s face isn’t what he has expected; there is nothing but controlled concern, and none of the disgust Thranduil has feared to see.

“Does it pain you still?” Bard murmurs. 

“No,” Thranduil says, and Bard nods as some of the lines of worry on his forehead fade. “Not anymore.”

“What happened to you?” he asks, and his voice is of a softness Thranduil hasn’t heard in a long time. 

The younger Thranduil closes his eyes. He feels Bard’s hand brushing is unscarred cheek, and some of the weight in his chest lifts under the softness of the touch.

“Dragons,” Thranduil replies, and opens his eyes again only to meet Bard’s staring right into his. “A long time ago.”

He hopes the briefness of his answer is enough to tell Bard he doesn’t wish to speak more of this; it isn’t a time to be remembered, for there is only pain lingering in those memories. 

Bard sits before him, and crosses his legs. When Thranduil stares with a raised eyebrow, he smiles and says nothing, just takes Thranduil’s hand in both of his once more. Then, Bard leaves a kiss upon his knuckles.

“I didn’t think you would be one to care about what people think of you,” Bard says gently, and reaches up to stroke the side of Thranduil’s face with his thumb; the gesture is delicate, careful not to irritate the burned flesh.

“I do not,” Thranduil replies, and he leans into Bard’s touch, searches for it; the scars don’t hurt anymore unless too much pressure is put against them, or pain suddenly strikes, as it had before Bard found him. “However, I do care what _you_ , and the children, think of me. I know how you feel, Bard, but—”

“There is no ‘bu—”

Thranduil’s ghost doesn’t let him finish. He closes his eyes while he adds, “Loving me doesn’t change what I am or what I look like.” 

Bard shakes his head, and keeps caressing his cheek, down his neck and back up. 

“Do you remember when you told me I'd never be anything but beautiful to you?” he asks, then puts a finger upon Thranduil’s lips when he tries to protest. “I didn’t fall in love with your face, nor your body, no matter how beautiful they are and always will be to my eyes.”

Slowly, his fingers linger on the path of Thranduil’s scars, from the side of his forehead down to his cheek, his neck, and his collarbone. Bard smiles, then kisses the ruined flesh he finds there, and Thranduil lets himself be lost to it. Then, he lifts Bard’s chin from the tip of his fingers, and leaves a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth.

“Please, believe my words, just as I believed yours,” Bard says, and the younger Thranduil only nods before he makes their lips meet in a chaste, yet passionate kiss, for he finds no words can express what feeling the fire inside his chest brings upon him. It isn’t the fire that destroys forests and towns, but the one from a fireplace on a winter’s day; soothing and making him feel at home.

Thranduil can almost feel it, too, and wishes it would burn once again. 

The scene disappears before his eyes, and he lets out a sigh. He looks down to his hand, free of scars and deprived of Bard’s touch—of anyone’s touch.

The orb enters in his line of sight, flickers, and the feeling in Thranduil's gut doesn't waver. He follows.

With the memories Thranduil has found some renewed energy, one that keeps him walking, for he is eager to see Bard again as much as he is allowed, and the orb seems to feel it. It stays closer to him now, floats around his body, and Thranduil can tell that it is glad of its success.

Somewhere amongst the maze of the branches above him, a bird sings; it is a rare sound here, and Thranduil finds himself whistling back to it. It is like music, and he smiles when a thrush lands on a root close to him, and seems to sing with him. 

Thranduil remembers fondly about the mock conspiratorial looks Bard sent his way as he listened to the birds, and thrushes in particular, from whatever room they were in. It had never mattered where; the birds always found Bard, and Thranduil had always seen in his eyes that he enjoyed their company as much as he enjoyed pretending to gossip with them. 

And, if Thranduil had to be quite honest, he had never doubted gossip was exactly what Bard heard from his feathered friends, though of what nature exactly, Bard had never told him. His laugh had said all that Thranduil ever needed to know.

There had been no more birds outside Thranduil’s bedroom once Bard had heaved out his last breath.

He shares some more whistles with the thrush, before it flies away, and Thranduil’s attention turns back to the orb, but not without a pinch to his heart. He misses Bard’s singing with the birds; he had always loved listening to them.

He is led forwards, further into the forest. As expected, he meets no foe, and Thranduil reaches a larger path untouched, though his heart is heavy; though he feels this is real, he knows it is not much more than an illusion, and the further he goes, the more the end draws near. Just like Bard's life, it is ephemeral.

That is why a tear rolls down his cheek when the orb fades, and Bard appears in its place. He is quick to wipe it.

Instantly, Thranduil knows which memory it is; there is only one night when Bard cared so much about the clothes he wore and the way he tamed his hair. 

Right beside Thranduil, his younger self appears. He takes a step forward, making his presence known. Bard looks finer than he has in years when he stands from the bench he is sitting on between the trees, and runs a hand through his hair, ruining what was surely an hour's worth of work.

It hasn't taken long for him to realize something is going on, and it is with a raised eyebrow that this Thranduil, unmarked yet by new grief, gets closer to his beloved.

“My King,” he says. There's a thin, amused smile on his lips as he gestures to Bard's attire. “What's the occasion?”

“Surely you have not forgotten,” Bard answers, extending his hand for Thranduil to take.

There's a short silence during which Thranduil inspects the lines of Bard's face, before he smiles once more, and replies, “No. No, I have not.”

Twenty years. It has been twenty years since their first meeting by the lake, and fifteen since the battle that had changed everything. It doesn't come up this much as a surprise, that Bard wants to make this day special, and it makes Thranduil’s ghost sad, for the passing of time is still something he cannot quite grasp, and it is in moments like these that he realizes how much they matter.

He takes Bard's hand, and Bard points to the stars. “Tell me about them again,” he says as he brings Thranduil along the path, and so Thranduil’s ghost tells him about the stars, like he has so many times before.

Thranduil's eyes must fail him, for the great tree that rules in the center of Mirkwood's royal gardens is there, surrounded by the barely living trees of the forest. Bard and the one he used to be come to an halt under the branches, covered by new leaves and spring flowers bathing in the moonlight.

They’ve been standing there for a moment, and the younger Thranduil is about to suggest they sit and enjoy the night, when Bard breaks the comfortable silence. 

“Will you marry me?” he suddenly asks.

Thranduil’s ghost freezes, and he turns slowly to meet Bard's gaze. He isn't on one knee like Bard told him was often done when Men made their proposal, but his eyes are bright and his smile hopeful. Between the fingers of the hand he is holding up, there is a ring of gold and white gems surely made with his own hands. It is a beautiful sight, one Thranduil wants to kiss, but he doesn't move.

He hasn't expected this, even though Bard’s wish to marry him has never been a secret. They have talked of this and their customs, many years before. Yet it takes Thranduil aback, and he says nothing; it isn't the thing to do, for Bard's smile falters and his hand falls by his side. It is easy, to see the deep hurt in his eyes.

“I see,” Bard whispers, and he looks away. “I apologize. I shouldn't have—you told me you were married already but I thought—since our ways are different, perhaps—”

“No, meleth nìn,” Thranduil cuts him off as he takes a step forward and cups Bard's cheek. “I may still be married to my wife, and we might meet again, but it doesn't mean you’ve done anything wrong.”

Bard smiles weakly, but still it is a smile and the least Thranduil has hoped for. He leans in for a quick kiss, and links their fingers together.

“What would your people say of such an union?” Bard inquires.

“It would be in the ways of Men,” Thranduil says. “I am not showing any disrespect to ours.”

“What about your wife?”

“She would love you.”

A smile tugs at the corners of Bard's mouth. “Does it mean you will marry me?” he asks.

Thranduil smiles, too. He tucks a lock of Bard's hair away from his face, and leaves a quick kiss upon his lips. “Yes,” he says then. “I will marry you.”

Bard's smile grows brighter. He raises Thranduil’s hand and puts the ring on his finger. Then he cups Thranduil's face between his hands, before kissing him back, deep and passionate, only to bury his head in the crook of Thranduil's neck. He doesn’t seem keen to let go, and his joy is as bright as the one Thranduil’s ghost feels burning within.

“It'd be private; just us, the family, and those we'd choose,” Bard murmurs. “My people don't need to know. You know what many would think if they even learned about us.”

“Aren't you the king?” Thranduil teases, and Bard laughs against his skin. Of course they wish things were different, and regret that Bard’s people wouldn’t be as open to such a relationship as Elves are. But sometimes it is better to keep secrets until the time comes, and that time hasn’t come just yet. Or so Bard thinks, but Thranduil feels that were Bard to take that step, things wouldn’t go as badly as he would expect. Bard is more loved than he believes, that is for certain. And—he hadn’t been wrong, in the end.

They sit under the branches, and if there is a night Thranduil cherishes above all the others, it is this one, for it was only theirs—the warmth of the night, and the stars watching over them, and their love as young and strong and bright as their first days together.

But the tree and the memory and the sweetness of it disappear, and the darkness isn't one Thranduil can escape from in Bard's arms.

Thranduil rubs the ring he is still wearing. He stands there for a little while, the orb patient by his side, before he walks on the forest's paths he knows so well. The orb seems to have lost of its strange enthusiasm, as if what comes next isn't worth any excitement. Thranduil shakes the thought away, like he should have before; this thing, whatever it is, cannot possibly have feelings.

Little attention is paid to Thranduil's surroundings. Instead his thoughts linger in the memories the orb is showing him, and his hands come to clench around the ring he’d had made for Bard, hanging around his neck under the finery of his clothes. It had been Bard's wish, for him to keep it close, and Thranduil hasn't been parted from it since then.

Lost in his thoughts, Thranduil hasn't realized the orb has stopped when he hears it.

There's the sound of a glass breaking on the ground, and as soon as Thranduil's eyes fall on the scene, he wants to run; he doesn't want to remember this one. Yet he stays, for he fears leaving before the end of a memory will stop whatever blessing is happening to him.

A desk has found place amongst the ill trees. It is Bard's, from his office in Dale. There is a large seat behind it, and two smaller ones facing it, though one of them has been overturned. On the ground between roots and grass Thranduil can see the shards of the glass of wine he has been drinking from that day.

Bard stands next to the desk. He is rubbing his eyes, and deep lines of worry mark his forehead.

As for Thranduil’s younger self, he is still shaken by the way Bard entered the room; never before has he seen his husband so angry.

“Meleth, it is alright,” Thranduil says, getting closer and putting his hands upon Bard's shoulders. He tries to be comforting, but it is of little use.

Bard won't meet his gaze, and pushes him away. Despite his anger, it is not harsh rejection; the gesture is somehow gentle, but yet still full of purpose.

Thranduil’s ghost inspects him, worry finding its way on his own features. Bard has changed over the course of the past years; there is more and more grey in his hair, and more wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He doesn't see well from afar anymore, and Thranduil knows it scares him more than he cares to admit.

“Alright?” Bard replies, and there's something in his voice Thranduil cannot quite put words on. “It's not 'alright'!”

“What should I have done?”

“You can't have a man executed without judgement, Thranduil!” Bard exclaims, throwing his arm up in the air, his other hand pinching the bridge of his nose. “What if I hadn't arrived in time? What would I have said to my people?”

“I—”

“For how long have you been King?” Bard cuts him off. “You should know this!”

“He had ordered to have you killed!” Thranduil snaps, but then he finds he doesn't have to strength to argue, and he lets himself fall on the other chair before Bard's desk. He buries his head in his hands. “Don't you understand?”

Bard lets his arms fall by his sides, and all of his anger seems to evaporate.

“Don't you understand,” Thranduil repeats, more quietly this time. “Don't you understand?”

Bard sighs, runs his hand through his hair. He comes forward, and stops before Thranduil. “Thran—” he murmurs.

Slowly he reaches out, puts his hand behind the back of Thranduil's head, and Thranduil’s ghost leans in, hides his face against Bard's sternum. He closes his eyes, and he listens.

Thranduil can almost hear it from where he stands away from the scene; the beating of Bard's heart, finding a steadier pace now that all anger is fading, replaced by the sorrow of a reality they cannot escape from. One that at the time Thranduil could not forget, not when he had to wait for Bard to walk up the stairs because it was too tiring for him to do it in one go, not when Bard could not make the ride to Mirkwood in one day anymore, not when he—Thranduil shakes his head, rubs his eyes. He doesn’t wish to think about it any more.

Bard gently takes Thranduil's wrists, and makes him stand. He doesn't wait to press their foreheads together, and steals a kiss from him. His hand caresses the length of Thranduil's arm, while the other brushes his cheek. He gives a small smile, meant to be reassuring.

“He could have taken you away—” Thranduil breathes. “It is too soon.”

“Thranduil.” Bard makes him look into his eyes, and sorry can be read inside them. “It will always be too soon.”

Thranduil’s ghost nods. He just nods, for there is little else he can do, and nothing to deny.

The memory fades there, leaving Thranduil feeling hollow. He sits on a root, and doesn't even pay attention to the small animal that comes smelling his fingers, looking for the warmth of its King. He trembles under the weight of this memory he wishes didn't have to exist.

Watching those moments he had shared with Bard unfold before his eyes once more has almost made him forget that this is all they are: memories.

Bard is dead and gone. He isn’t wandering the path of this forest.

His fists clenched, Thranduil laughs to himself. Bard isn't a part of this world anymore, and he had been foolish to believe in a miracle, to believe that maybe, they would be granted a happy ending. Foolish to think it wouldn't be harder than his heart had tried to make him believe it would be, to live with Bard’s death. Yet still today the pain of grief crushes him down, and he doesn't know what keeps him standing against all odds.

He stands as he lets out a ragged cry, and he punches the air next to him; he doesn't make contact with the orb, but goes through it, and Thranduil feels the shock as skin and bones meet the bark of the nearest tree. He barely registers the pain, but he sees the blood; dark and red and colouring the paleness of his skin.

Meanwhile, the orb is patient as ever, undisturbed by Thranduil's outburst; it floats before him, its light maybe just a little dimmer. It's as if it is sad, witnessing the pain it is causing Thranduil.

Perhaps he shouldn’t keep on following the orb, but still, the feeling he mustn't give up and turn away hasn't left him. And so once his breathing finds its pace, once he accepts his reality enough, Thranduil goes with a heavy heart. He knows where this path leads, and the thought of it sends a shiver run down his spine.

It is a special place, full of good memories filled with light and kisses shared under the stars, but Thranduil is no fool; he fears what he will be shown there will not soothe his bleeding heart in any way. However, now he feels confident enough, and it is with his head high that he nods to the orb, and together they walk on.

Dusk has fallen upon the forest when he reaches the clearing—their clearing.

Despite his will, a lump is quick to form in Thranduil's throat. He isn't ready, to be back in this place. Yet he is drawn to it, and finds he cannot leave; it calls to him, and as he always did before Bard got too old to make the travel, and despite his grief, Thranduil marvels at the life that prospers here in the form of fresh grass and flowers which colours shine under the fresh light of the moon and fading light of the sun, coming from a large hole in the canopy of the trees.

However it is different; in its center, there is a bed, and Thranduil knows it well. It is a bed he spent many nights in, for it is his and Bard's. It is the bed he left this morning, in the room he and Bard shared on each of his visits, and until the very end.

Many would have not deemed it wise, yet when Bard's life had neared its end, it was in Thranduil's halls that he had asked to be, for he had always been very fond of them. His son had taken his functions earlier, and that way allowed his father to spend the last months of his life with a lighter mind.

Thranduil inhales deeply. 

He doesn’t know for how long he stands there, his eyes closed, taking in and breathing the atmosphere around him, but when he opens them again, the orb is moving away. He has never been ready for this, and would never have been, but he will face it if this is the last step to take.

He takes a step forward as the orb stops above the bed, and disappears.

In its place, Bard now lays on the covers, Thranduil’s ghost by his side. He's playing with locks of beautiful, grey hair. At least, he'd always thought it was beautiful, no matter Bard's opinion. Truth is that Thranduil hates what they represent, yet he still loves them, as much as he loves the wrinkles marking years of laughter at the corners of Bard's eyes; but then, Bard has never been anything but beautiful to him.

Bard's voice rises, quiet and tired but bittersweet. “I wish I could see your face one last time. It is so dark,” he says.

Thranduil shakes his head, leaves a kiss upon Bard's temple. “It is not dark, meleth nìn; rub your eyes, and you'll see the stars.”

Bard laughs, gets closer to Thranduil's warmth, and as told, he rubs his eyes. A smile stretches on his face, and he laughs again. “Those are strange stars,” he murmurs, good humor in his tone. 

Thranduil’s ghost doesn’t laugh, but he cracks a smile despite himself. 

“I do see them, though,” Bard adds. There's silence, and then he speaks again, “Are there stars, in the Halls of Mandos?”

“I do not know,” Thranduil murmurs.

“I guess I'll find out soon enough.”

Thranduil's grip around Bard's shoulders tightens, but Bard's smile doesn’t falter. “Why must you say such things? Why do you smile when you're—”

“Dying?” Bard finishes. “Sometimes death is a blessing. I am old and I've done my time, Thranduil. Maybe from there I can help in another way.”

“Now you're speaking nonsense.”

“Are you saying I'm losing my wits?”

“Maybe,” Thranduil replies, and this time there's a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Bard laughs again. He elbows Thranduil's side, and seems content by the chuckle that escapes his lover. “What I mean is, we do not know what's waiting on the other side. I'm just trying to be positive about it,” Bard explains. “It is better than believing there is nothing but darkness.”

Thranduil gives no answer. Instead he keeps stroking Bard's hair, kisses his forehead and links their fingers together. Bard may be smiling and clinging onto him, but Thranduil can still hear the unsteadiness of his breath, feel the strength that is leaving him.

There isn't much time left, time he has been given by Bard's children—their children—and he is determined to make the most of it.

“I love you,” Thranduil says, and repeats, “I love you.”

Bard lets out a long exhale. He's smiling—why doesn't he stop smiling? “I know,” he replies.

Then, he reaches up to search Thranduil's face and burns, and wipe his silent tears with shaky fingers. “Thank you,” Bard breathes.

Thranduil’s ghost shakes his head once more.

“Le melin, Thranduil,” Bard adds, and Thranduil holds him tighter.

“I know,” he replies.

At once it seems time goes faster; before his eyes Thranduil sees Bard fall asleep, and his younger self watching, unable to close his eyes. He takes a step back; he doesn't want to see this again. Once has been hard enough.

He tries to walk away, but something holds him there. Around his feet there are strings keeping him where he stands, blue and softly lit, similar to the orb that has lead him here.

There is nowhere he can go, no way he can escape the soft gasp that reaches his ear. “No,” the Thranduil on the bed whispers. “Please, no.”

Hearing the broken cry that follows hurts maybe even more than voicing it had, all those months ago; it tears through his skin and his flesh and even deeper inside him. His fists clench at his sides, and he closes his eyes. Once had been enough. Thranduil is strong for many things, but not for this. He had never truly been.

It would always have been too soon.

He feels his eyes fill themselves with tears, his grief growing larger inside his chest.

“Stop,” Thranduil says, but what he really means is _‘why?’_

He doesn't know who he's asking.

On the bed Thranduil is still crying, and Bard is still gone.

“Stop it,” he repeats.

And the pain spreads, festers, as fresh as when he was this broken king clinging to Bard's body, burying his head in his chest, and hearing nothing but silence under his ear. He doesn't know what keeps him from falling to his knees and hiding his face behind his hands.

“Stop it now!” he orders with a swing of his arm, harsh and aggressive, and his words resonate around him as much as they tremble.

In an instant there is a flash of white light, burning his eyes and blinding him.

There is a hissing sound in his ear.

And then—there is no bed anymore. Just the flowers, and the sun, and the moon, and the trees surrounding it all.

There is no memory, but there is Bard. Different, young as the day they first kissed, but dressed in that blue coat he had loved so much, and Thranduil knows it is no trick—unless it is one of his mind—for he could recognize Bard amongst thousands.

It _is_ Bard, right in front of him.

It is Bard, but this time he doesn't seem real; he doesn't move, just stands there in the middle of the clearing. The setting sun shines through him, and he is ethereal blue, much like the orb that is swirling around him. There's a soft, sad smile on his lips, and he says nothing.

Bard holds up his hand, palm open, seeming to invite Thranduil to join him.

Thranduil feels his legs shake; he takes a step forward nonetheless, for he knows this is not a memory, either. This is different. He tries to reach out to the love he lost, but his limbs fail him and his knees meet the ground in a thud. Thranduil buries his face in his hands. Why is his mind doing this to him, he wonders, why did he even allow—

No. This _is_ different.

There is something about Bard; in the way he stands, and the way he smiles, and the way his eyes meet Thranduil’s. 

And, there is the spark. The spark that was born in Bard’s eyes just for him—before Thranduil fell and hid his face away, he saw it, and it wasn’t just the ghost of it. Of this he is certain. 

When finally Thranduil dares to look up, Bard is crouched before him. He hasn’t heard him getting closer. He doesn't even hear his breath.

“Is—” Thranduil closes his eyes shut for a second. He needs to ask. “Is this really you? Meleth nìn?”

Bard nods, but as Thranduil lets out a shaky breath, he doesn't smile anymore; he looks sorry. He reaches for Thranduil's cheek as if to brush it like he did so many times before, but his hand goes through living skin and flesh. Thranduil shivers. Bard’s face falls some more, and at once he draws back. He shakes his head with a silent sigh, closing his eyes, and stands up.

He gestures for Thranduil to do the same, and Bard’s hand follows him, as if Bard wishes he could offer it as a hold.

Taking a step back, Bard inspects him from head to toe, lines of worry on his forehead, which only increase when his gaze stops at Thranduil's feet.

Thranduil has no wish to let Bard out of sight, but under the pressure of Bard's eyes, he looks down. Cuts and blood scatter his bare feet along the mud and the dirt. He doesn't remember why he wears nothing, and doubts there is even a reason. He merely hasn't cared.

Just as the cold of the ground hasn't touched him, he hasn't even noticed the pain. Or so he thought; compared to Bard's warmth, Thranduil realizes now that he is cold, more than he’s imagined he could get. But it isn't only a coldness of the body; it is also of the mind, and it melts under Bard's presence, but still it resists.

“It's nothing,” Thranduil whispers.

He almost smiles at how Bard rolls his eyes at him, though the sorrow there doesn't waver.

Still in silence, Bard crouches at Thranduil's feet, and lets his fingers linger over the cuts. Thranduil doesn't have to see his face to know disapproval is tainting it. With the tip of his fingers he touches the top of Bard's head; he cannot feel anything but warmth, similar to the orb that is floating close to them. Close to Bard. It has changed, now: there is a light of red and gold, similar to fire, inside of it.

When Bard rises, the cuts and the pain are gone. Thranduil holds his breath. Bard repeats the action to Thranduil's knuckles, and Thranduil swears Bard is humming a song he cannot hear.

“What are you?” is all Thranduil finds to say. He has seen enough in his too-long life not to wonder too much, but this he has to ask. His hands are shaking despite all of his self control, and his breath isn't as steady as it should be, though it is still calm.

Bard's only answer is to hold up his own hand, and inspect it. His gaze is barely readable, but says enough; he doesn't know himself.

“How?”

But Bard shakes his head once again. He gets closer, and grazes the skin of Thranduil's face. He searches Thranduil’s eyes, and Thranduil doesn't know for how long they stand there, unable to look away.

It doesn't matter what or how; what matters is that it _is_ , and Thranduil can't quite put words to what he feels. He does, however, know one thing: he doesn't feel much better, even though he finds comfort in Bard's presence. If this isn't a trick of his mind, it is still an illusion in a world where Bard is buried under the ground, a world in which they cannot touch nor kiss.

“I'm so tired, Bard,” Thranduil breathes. “I'm so cold.”

Bard's expression softens more, and he mouths something. _I'm sorry_ , Thranduil understands, and it is his turn to shake his head.

“It is not your fault,” he says, but his voice breaks.

With a swift motion, Bard catches the orb that hasn't left his side. It stays close to his hand and swirls around before it settles down and floats above Bard's palm. Its light is warmer, even softer, matching its master.

“Was it you, all this time?” Thranduil asks as he brushes the orb. He doesn't have the will to ask when Bard will have to go, instead.

Bard gives a short nod of his head, tries on a thin smile.

And Thranduil wonders. For a short moment he wonders why Bard has shown him those last two memories, and means to ask him, but he realizes then that Bard has never seen only evil in Men’s eternal sleep.

“There is beauty even in death”, Bard had told him once. He hadn’t understood, back then.

Is this it? Is this the beauty he spoke of? Or is it the strength of their love, that strength which led them to this last goodbye? Is that what this is about? If it is, then this time he wishes to understand. 

As if he had heard Thranduil’s thoughts, Bard brings up a finger, and puts it over Thranduil's lips. He gives another smile, brighter this time, and slowly approaches the hand holding the orb to Thranduil's chest. Bard lets his other hand travel from lips to neck, and he presses his forehead over Thranduil's.

Bard closes his eyes, and Thranduil holds his breath once again.

A soft gasp escapes him when he _feels_ Bard's hand going through his skin and flesh. There is no pain, only a strange feeling of peace rushing through him. It is overwhelming, inexplicable, and yet he craves for more.

Warmth spreads fast throughout his body, from his heart to the top of his head and the tip of his toes like a forest fire, except it doesn't burn nor destroy; instead it soothes and comforts, puts Thranduil's mind and body at ease.

He looks down where Bard has pressed the orb, right over his heart; it has fully disappeared inside him, but still it glows. Thranduil watches until it fades, and there are silent tears falling down his cheeks before he can even try to stop them.

When Thranduil looks up at last, Bard has drawn out, and taken a step back. There is still this soft smile upon his lips, but something else, too: hope.

Thranduil inhales, and for the first time in what feels like years, it feels like properly breathing again. It is through Bard's smile that he understands. It is true; they cannot talk or touch or kiss, but do they need to? Is that all there was to the love they shared?

No. No, it wasn’t. Their love is so much more, and it is far more precious. It's what has kept him going for long enough to see this day, to be given this chance. He knows and feels it; this is what it is about.

Thranduil watches as Bard sits in the middle of the clearing, amongst the flowers and the fresh grass now bathing in the moonlight; night has fallen, and he hadn't noticed. Bard pats the space before him, and Thranduil takes the few steps that separates them without so much as a second thought. He sits there, with Bard at hand's reach, closer than Thranduil ever thought he would be again.

Then, Bard’s eyes meet his, and what they are saying is clear to Thranduil; he has been on receiving end of it many times before, whenever he kept struggles and burdens to himself. In time there had been nothing Thranduil hadn’t shared with Bard. And so, he talks. He talks about grief and pain and hope. He talks of his people, of the Men of Dale. He talks of their children and grandchildren, and how strong they have been. He talks of how he feels, of his hopes and his regrets. He talks, and Bard listens, and when Bard laughs Thranduil can almost hear him.

Hours pass, and maybe Thranduil should fear for this to end by dawn, but it doesn't; when the birds wake and the sun rises, he is still in the forest, in the clearing, and Bard hasn't been taken away from him yet again.

It doesn't, and it never stops. It never was a dream, nor a trick of his mind, nor anything but a reality he cannot explain, and doesn't try to understand. It is enough, and more than Thranduil has ever dared to hope for. 

 

Wherever Thranduil goes thereafter, Bard follows. Through years and wars and sleepless nights, through births and new tomorrows, he always follows, never leaves his side, never leaves him behind.

He is a constant companion, a light in the dark.

There are some who say the Elvenking of Mirkwood has gone mad with grief.

But many years later, when Evil breaks loose one last time and is defeated, when the woods heal and receive a new name, there are others who say they’ve seen a blue orb flickering by the King's side, and that when his laugh, bright and pure, broke through the air, there was another joining it.

**Author's Note:**

> Your words mean the world to me! Please let me know if you liked this story, even in a few, simple words, you'll make my day and I'll be forever grateful! ♡ It's never too late to leave a comment!! And thank you so much for reading!!
> 
> [Here](http://evansluke.tumblr.com/post/157450998668/somewhere-only-we-know-bardthranduil-set-in) is the aesthetic if you wish to share it! And [here](northerntrash.tumblr.com/post/145122371762/nts-fic-recs-46-somewhere-only-we-know-by)'s another one by the lovely [Char](http://archiveofourown.org/users/northerntrash/)!
> 
> Note: I love the Bardlings to death and I didn't forget them; I just wanted to focus the memories on Bard and Thran. It absolutely doesn't mean I think the children were not important in their story :)
> 
> Find me on Tumblr [here](http://barduil.tumblr.com)~ Feel free to message me questions or talk to me about my stories! :D


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